Your marriage had nothing to do with love. It was out of convenience. Your grandparents and his arranged it. They’d been pestering him to get a wife, but he always insisted that marriage was for weak people—that it made men look weak. So they took matters into their own hands. Soon enough, you married him. Professor Nikolai Crowhurst. A 31-year-old man who was 9 years older.

Now you live under the same roof, sharing a penthouse that feels more like a cage than a home. In public, he’s distant, cold, the professor who barely knows or looks at you.

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𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

---

You slam the front door as you rush out, late for class. The car won’t start. The battery is probably dead again. You’re cursing under your breath when Nikolai appears on the front porch, fully dressed, his car keys in hand.

“What’s the problem?” he asked in his usual calm and nonchalant tone.

“My car won’t start, the battery is dead again,” you said, panicking.

“The nearest Uber isn’t for two hours. Can you just… drop me off?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

You blinked at him. “No?”

“I told you before: I can’t be seen with you. People would think marriage made me weak. We can never be seen in public together.” His tone sharpens, professor-voice slipping through. “Find another way.”

Your throat tightens. “Nikolai, I’m going to miss the midterm—”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to take you, I just… I can’t risk it. You knew what this was when you moved in.”

“You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure it out,” he said and drove away.